The black mask rang alarm bells, too. Not conclusive, of course—anyone could wear a mask; that was the point of a mask—but how many people knew about this particular style?

Tentative conclusion: sorcery. The man across the way was one of the Penitent Damned, a supernatural assassin.

Course of action: unclear. It was possible that she would be able to defeat him, in spite of his evident advantages. Sothe had beaten many men over the years (and a handful of women), some of whom thought they’d had her in a bad spot. She’d been wounded, starved, tortured, outmuscled, and outgunned. In the end, she’d always come out on top.

Her hands itched to draw the knives at her back, burst through the doorway, and see if the intruder’s skill at throwing knives extended to hand-to-hand combat. But she took a long breath, feeling blood drooling down her skin, and waited.

No. Objectives first. Mission first. Her mission was to make sure the illusion of Raesinia’s presence here was maintained. The only chance of success was to kill this man, and even then the secret might get out in the confusion that followed the slaughter. Secondary objective. If secrecy could not be maintained, she had to warn Raesinia the ruse had come apart. That would be impossible if the intruder killed her.

The right course was apparent. Retreat. It hurt her pride, but her pride was not important. Mission first.

That decided, how to execute? The stairs, behind her, were in full view of the doorway. There was another set, but that would involve going through the sitting room, and the intruder would probably be able to run her down. Window, then. The nearest one of those was also in the sitting room, but much closer.

Perhaps a second had passed.

She grabbed the ornamental table by its spindly base, tipping china ornaments to shatter on the floor. Raising it in front of her like a shield, she bulled through the doorway. One knife thocked into the surface of the table, and Sothe ducked her head when she saw the man in black winding up for another throw. A moment later, the blade whistled an inch over her head.

She threw the table, a clumsy effort, but enough that he had to step back into the bedroom for a moment. That bought her a moment to roll sideways, coming up with a knife in hand, whipping it at where he would have to be in order to attack. He twisted, letting the blade rip past his cheek by a hair’s breadth, and snatched another blade from a sheath at his side.

Sothe bounced up and jumped, headfirst, at the window. It was four-paned, with a wooden crossbeam, but her momentum was enough to drive her through it in a splintering crash. Shards of glass surrounded her for a moment, and she felt cuts open on her cheek and forehead. Then she was falling.